Gus sees that the drag marks get shallower at the end furthest from the stall.
Tuu'Saayn notices one of the other vendors - a muscular woman with long, brightly dyed hair, selling bulk flour, oats and other goods - eyeing the gnome crawling about beneath the clothing stall and quickly move away, busying themselves with something at the far end of their stall.
Gus hunches low over the fading drag marks, brow furrowing beneath his mop of hair. He traces the lines with finger, eyes tracking where they lighten and disappear into scuffed gravel and churned dust. Then he stops.
“They stop here,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else. “Shallow. Lighter. They weren’t dragged further, maybe lifted?"
“Dragged out of the stall... then hoisted into the air. Not carried off through the crowd. Up.” He tilts his head slightly, expression unusually serious. “It’s the only thing that makes sense."
He turns to the others gathering near, voice gaining urgency.
“I don't think we are looking for boot prints—we’re looking upward. Above the stalls. Between the lanterns. The canvas tarps. Anywhere the light doesn’t quite reach.”
Perception check to determine if in fact they were lifted and there is some one moving with something that could be hide a body slung over their shoulder or something not moving at ground level and carried them away. 19
[There must have been a dozen people walking over those marks in the minutes since they were created - but the ground is hard, a scattering of fine gravel and packed dirt over fairly smooth stone, and there doesn't seem to be anything else out of place.]
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Tuu'Saayn pretends not to notice her, acting like he is focused on watching Gus. He continues to watch the flour vendor and gather more information about her current activities and interest in the gnome.
Chronos looked grim. He crossed his arms and gripped his shoulder tightly as he thought about what could possibly be the cause of this terrible crime. He doesn't notice the muscular woman and waltzes over to Tuu'Saayn. "What're you thinking? Have you got any leads?"
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
He/Him. I am the DM, you are the player. You make the mistakes and I decide the consequences. Now, with that being said - Are you SURE you want to cast Fireball?
Above the cheerfully lit stalls there is only blackness - perhaps what gave the Dyn Singh Night Market its name. Here and there, huge stone pillars ten feet across rise up into the darkness, shelves and alcoves carved into them to hold the tiny candles that help illuminate their lowest portions. To the South, a great wall is visible, where the gate and tunnel through which the cart entered are set.
You are still at the Southern end of the market, having gone only a few yards from the waggoner and his dilapidated cart. The roadway, such as it is, runs around the edges of the market, the only clear space visible amongst the tangle of stalls, boxes, crates, waggons, tables and tents, and presumably reaches the Citadel on the other side.
The crowd are wandering the stalls, many carrying bags and packages. Here a man wheels a tiny waggon, selling hot meat-like greasy treats and savoury pastries of questionable provenance. A pair of sweating carpet vendors are unloading their wares from a cart, still setting up their stall for the evening.
The vendor that caught Tuu'Saayn's eye literally went out of their way to avoid looking at what Gus was doing - only returning to their stall once he had moved away from the clothes vendors place and gone to talk to the others.
[On a 19 perception you see many things, but they might not be what you were looking for. A 13 insight and you can see what the vendor did, but not why.]
He/Him. I am the DM, you are the player. You make the mistakes and I decide the consequences. Now, with that being said - Are you SURE you want to cast Fireball?
"I think two people have been taken against their will, seemingly in the middle of a busy market." Dropping his voice to a hushed tone, "With some blood on a hair ribbon, I would have to guess that she was hit on the head. If the drag marks were from boot heels, then it is likely that both of these people were attacked in a similar manner. I suggest that we follow in the direction that the drag marks made, it is really our only lead. I would also be curious if these two had a connection. I did not begin to question the other vendors," he looks down at his red skin, and for emphasis his tail twitched, "as many are untrusting of my kind. Perhaps another with a silver tongue would be better suited to that task."
Gus's brow furrows as the pieces start falling into place. His fist slams into the palm of his hand, eyes lighting up with a sudden realization.
"A wagon!"Gus exclaims, nearly too loud for the bustling crowd around them. "That's it! It must've been a wagon, just like the one I saw over there. Something heavy, dragging 'em along—quick, silent, smooth."
He turns to look back over his shoulder toward the market's southern entrance, where the wall and gates loom large. His eyes narrow as he scrutinizes the distant sight of wagons coming in and out of the market.
"That cart’s got a straight shot to the Citadel. I bet they didn’t just vanish—they were loaded up and carted off in plain sight, probably right under everyone’s noses. They must’ve been fast about it. No one saw a thing, 'cause it was done in a rush—just like the drag marks, like a wagon rumbled in, scooped 'em up, and carried 'em off before anyone could blink."
He glances over at Tuu'Saayn with a thoughtful expression.
“You’re right about the connection between the two. Something’s linking those two victims. A shared vendetta? Maybe they were both in the wrong place at the wrong time... or maybe they were targeted for something else entirely.”
He winks at Tuu'Saayn before continuing.
"Silver tongue, eh? Maybe one of us can slip around and talk to the right folk. See if anyone noticed the wagon."
Gus looks directly at Tuu'Saayn with a serious nod.
"Good catch with the ribbon. Keep an eye out for more of those little details. They’re clues we can’t afford to miss."
Tuu'Saayn looked around in disgust. He wasn't good with slang, too many years with mostly silent monks, but he thought he remembered something fitting.
"What a, how did it go again, what a fecal performance!" He was pleased at how quickly he was picking up on the lingo and expected to hear confirming comments in short order.
"I don't think the watch will be of much help, and those people may not have much time to spare. At least one was injured that we know of. Let's question a few other vendor's that were close and see if we can get some leads."
Along with the one that ran out of sticky buns and the one where the vendor vanished, there's at least one more - who says their delivery cart hasn't arrived from the Citadel.
The entrance tunnel gate you arrived through is closed for the night, a squad of Citadel soldiers on the other side of the heavy iron portcullis - no-one else will be reaching the market from outside the Citadel this evening.
Tuu'Saayn looked around in disgust. He wasn't good with slang, too many years with mostly silent monks, but he thought he remembered something fitting.
"What a, how did it go again, what a fecal performance!" He was pleased at how quickly he was picking up on the lingo and expected to hear confirming comments in short order.
"I don't think the watch will be of much help, and those people may not have much time to spare. At least one was injured that we know of. Let's question a few other vendor's that were close and see if we can get some leads."
2
The farmers resent Tuu'Saayn's interference and break off from their fight, posturing and threatening him as a "weak looking dope who couldn't push a shovel."
They loose interest and move on.
5
Talking to the vendors yields only shrugs and shaken heads - none of them remember seeing Hildegard leave her clothes shop or Leo the Baker depart his stall, and though they all seem uncomfortable talking about it, that might just be because his accent and clothing mark him out as a foreigner.
"I don't want no trouble with Hildegard - leave her to her business."
Gus watches the heated argument dissolve as Tuu’Saayn’s interjection saps the tension, the farmers dispersing. But it’s not the threat or insult that lingers in Gus’s mind—it’s one word that cuts through everything else.
“Baker.”
His ears perk, his eyes widen, and in a flash of motion that’s far more enthusiastic than it has any right to be, Gus straightens his collar, dusts off his vest, and strides—no, bounds—toward the nearby stall where another baker has set up.
“Excuse me! Hello—yes, you, the flour-blessed artisan of warmth and joy,” he calls, coming to a stop with a hopeful grin. “I couldn’t help overhearing. You said your cart hasn’t come in from the Citadel?”
He leans in, a mix of curiosity and earnest dread on his face.
“Please tell me this doesn’t mean we’re facing another pastry shortage. I’m not emotionally prepared for another sudden vanishing of sweet treats.”
He takes a moment, his voice lowering as he glances behind him, then back to the baker.
“Actually, that might not just be bad luck. One of the other bakers—he just… disappeared. Stall still warm from the oven, sticky buns barely cooled. Poof. No one saw a thing. And a clothes vendor named Hildegard? Gone too.”
He frowns, the weight of the mystery creeping into his features.
“Does that… happen? Is it normal for people to vanish from the market without a trace?
Gus pauses, then taps a finger to his chin thoughtfully.
"But if your cart’s late and the gate’s sealed for the night, is that normal, I mean you were expecting it were you not?"
He tilts his head, studying the baker’s face carefully.
“Has anything else strange happened lately? Missing carts? Shadows where there shouldn’t be shadows? Buyers asking weird questions? Anyone trying to pay for a pie with something other than money?”
Then, with a half-hearted attempt to lighten the mood:
“I swear, if I get to the bottom of this and find out someone’s been hoarding all the sticky buns for some secret underground pastry cult, I’m going to be very conflicted.”
The flour-dappled vendor looks at Gustavo in horrified fascination - as though he's expecting him to explode at any moment (A common reaction to the hyperactive Gnome, alas.)
"Yes, I was expecting a cart down from the Citadel, I've only got so much stock left and this crowd will be down to hard tack in a few hours. They close the tunnel gate all the time, and no-one will be on the low road this late, but my store's back up in the city, right up near the daylight levels - should have been down here by now."
"I don't know Leo: Quiet chap, keeps himself to himself and doesn't cause any trouble - we nod in passing and he's pleasant enough to chat to while we're waiting at the mill.
I know Hildegard, though I wish I didn't. Her and her washerwomen."
[On a 17: He's afraid of Hildegard - for some reason the mild-looking silver-haired woman in the pale blue gown frightens him deeply.]
Gus feels the baker’s unease radiate off him like steam from a fresh tray of cinnamon rolls. He reins in his usual energy as much as Gus can and lifts both hands in a calm, friendly gesture. His smile softens. His voice, though still peppy, dials down to “mildly excitable.”
“Oh. I’m just a gnome with a curious heart and a weakness for good bread.”
He gives a small wink, then casually glances over his shoulder and subtly waves Tuu’Saayn over with a two-fingered flick behind his back. To anyone else, it might look like he’s brushing off a crumb.
“Now,” he continues, adjusting his vest as if simply settling into a casual chat, “you mentioned Hildegard…”
He leans just slightly closer, lowering his voice.
“What’s the story there? I mean, you don’t have to be afraid of me—well, unless you ever try to sell me a day-old danish at fresh-baked prices.”
He chuckles lightly, then adds with an almost surprising clarity of tone.
“Truth is, we’re looking into her disappearance, too. Leo, Hildegard. And if there’s something off about her, now would be a fantastic time to bring it up.”
He tilts his head, eyes searching the baker’s expression with a quiet kind of empathy.
“I’m not judging. Just trying to keep folks safe. Even the scary ones in blue gowns.”
13
Gus sees that the drag marks get shallower at the end furthest from the stall.
Tuu'Saayn notices one of the other vendors - a muscular woman with long, brightly dyed hair, selling bulk flour, oats and other goods - eyeing the gnome crawling about beneath the clothing stall and quickly move away, busying themselves with something at the far end of their stall.
Gus hunches low over the fading drag marks, brow furrowing beneath his mop of hair. He traces the lines with finger, eyes tracking where they lighten and disappear into scuffed gravel and churned dust. Then he stops.
“They stop here,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else. “Shallow. Lighter. They weren’t dragged further, maybe lifted?"
“Dragged out of the stall... then hoisted into the air. Not carried off through the crowd. Up.” He tilts his head slightly, expression unusually serious. “It’s the only thing that makes sense."
He turns to the others gathering near, voice gaining urgency.
“I don't think we are looking for boot prints—we’re looking upward. Above the stalls. Between the lanterns. The canvas tarps. Anywhere the light doesn’t quite reach.”
Perception check to determine if in fact they were lifted and there is some one moving with something that could be hide a body slung over their shoulder or something not moving at ground level and carried them away. 19
[There must have been a dozen people walking over those marks in the minutes since they were created - but the ground is hard, a scattering of fine gravel and packed dirt over fairly smooth stone, and there doesn't seem to be anything else out of place.]
Tuu'Saayn pretends not to notice her, acting like he is focused on watching Gus. He continues to watch the flour vendor and gather more information about her current activities and interest in the gnome.
1 deception
10 (+5) insight
Chronos looked grim. He crossed his arms and gripped his shoulder tightly as he thought about what could possibly be the cause of this terrible crime. He doesn't notice the muscular woman and waltzes over to Tuu'Saayn. "What're you thinking? Have you got any leads?"
He/Him. I am the DM, you are the player. You make the mistakes and I decide the consequences. Now, with that being said - Are you SURE you want to cast Fireball?
Above the cheerfully lit stalls there is only blackness - perhaps what gave the Dyn Singh Night Market its name. Here and there, huge stone pillars ten feet across rise up into the darkness, shelves and alcoves carved into them to hold the tiny candles that help illuminate their lowest portions. To the South, a great wall is visible, where the gate and tunnel through which the cart entered are set.
You are still at the Southern end of the market, having gone only a few yards from the waggoner and his dilapidated cart. The roadway, such as it is, runs around the edges of the market, the only clear space visible amongst the tangle of stalls, boxes, crates, waggons, tables and tents, and presumably reaches the Citadel on the other side.
The crowd are wandering the stalls, many carrying bags and packages. Here a man wheels a tiny waggon, selling hot meat-like greasy treats and savoury pastries of questionable provenance. A pair of sweating carpet vendors are unloading their wares from a cart, still setting up their stall for the evening.
The vendor that caught Tuu'Saayn's eye literally went out of their way to avoid looking at what Gus was doing - only returning to their stall once he had moved away from the clothes vendors place and gone to talk to the others.
[On a 19 perception you see many things, but they might not be what you were looking for. A 13 insight and you can see what the vendor did, but not why.]
(I'm going to bow out, I've lost interest, sorry)
He/Him. I am the DM, you are the player. You make the mistakes and I decide the consequences. Now, with that being said - Are you SURE you want to cast Fireball?
"I think two people have been taken against their will, seemingly in the middle of a busy market." Dropping his voice to a hushed tone, "With some blood on a hair ribbon, I would have to guess that she was hit on the head. If the drag marks were from boot heels, then it is likely that both of these people were attacked in a similar manner. I suggest that we follow in the direction that the drag marks made, it is really our only lead. I would also be curious if these two had a connection. I did not begin to question the other vendors," he looks down at his red skin, and for emphasis his tail twitched, "as many are untrusting of my kind. Perhaps another with a silver tongue would be better suited to that task."
Gus's brow furrows as the pieces start falling into place. His fist slams into the palm of his hand, eyes lighting up with a sudden realization.
"A wagon!" Gus exclaims, nearly too loud for the bustling crowd around them. "That's it! It must've been a wagon, just like the one I saw over there. Something heavy, dragging 'em along—quick, silent, smooth."
He turns to look back over his shoulder toward the market's southern entrance, where the wall and gates loom large. His eyes narrow as he scrutinizes the distant sight of wagons coming in and out of the market.
"That cart’s got a straight shot to the Citadel. I bet they didn’t just vanish—they were loaded up and carted off in plain sight, probably right under everyone’s noses. They must’ve been fast about it. No one saw a thing, 'cause it was done in a rush—just like the drag marks, like a wagon rumbled in, scooped 'em up, and carried 'em off before anyone could blink."
He glances over at Tuu'Saayn with a thoughtful expression.
“You’re right about the connection between the two. Something’s linking those two victims. A shared vendetta? Maybe they were both in the wrong place at the wrong time... or maybe they were targeted for something else entirely.”
He winks at Tuu'Saayn before continuing.
"Silver tongue, eh? Maybe one of us can slip around and talk to the right folk. See if anyone noticed the wagon."
Gus looks directly at Tuu'Saayn with a serious nod.
"Good catch with the ribbon. Keep an eye out for more of those little details. They’re clues we can’t afford to miss."
[If no-one wants to try talking, you could just split up and listen for rumours: a group investigation roll & we'll see what turns up]
Investigation for group check:
16
Tuu'Saayn looked around in disgust. He wasn't good with slang, too many years with mostly silent monks, but he thought he remembered something fitting.
"What a, how did it go again, what a fecal performance!" He was pleased at how quickly he was picking up on the lingo and expected to hear confirming comments in short order.
"I don't think the watch will be of much help, and those people may not have much time to spare. At least one was injured that we know of. Let's question a few other vendor's that were close and see if we can get some leads."
Investigation:12
2
The farmers resent Tuu'Saayn's interference and break off from their fight, posturing and threatening him as a "weak looking dope who couldn't push a shovel."
They loose interest and move on.
5
Talking to the vendors yields only shrugs and shaken heads - none of them remember seeing Hildegard leave her clothes shop or Leo the Baker depart his stall, and though they all seem uncomfortable talking about it, that might just be because his accent and clothing mark him out as a foreigner.
"I don't want no trouble with Hildegard - leave her to her business."
Gus watches the heated argument dissolve as Tuu’Saayn’s interjection saps the tension, the farmers dispersing. But it’s not the threat or insult that lingers in Gus’s mind—it’s one word that cuts through everything else.
“Baker.”
His ears perk, his eyes widen, and in a flash of motion that’s far more enthusiastic than it has any right to be, Gus straightens his collar, dusts off his vest, and strides—no, bounds—toward the nearby stall where another baker has set up.
“Excuse me! Hello—yes, you, the flour-blessed artisan of warmth and joy,” he calls, coming to a stop with a hopeful grin. “I couldn’t help overhearing. You said your cart hasn’t come in from the Citadel?”
He leans in, a mix of curiosity and earnest dread on his face.
“Please tell me this doesn’t mean we’re facing another pastry shortage. I’m not emotionally prepared for another sudden vanishing of sweet treats.”
He takes a moment, his voice lowering as he glances behind him, then back to the baker.
“Actually, that might not just be bad luck. One of the other bakers—he just… disappeared. Stall still warm from the oven, sticky buns barely cooled. Poof. No one saw a thing. And a clothes vendor named Hildegard? Gone too.”
He frowns, the weight of the mystery creeping into his features.
“Does that… happen? Is it normal for people to vanish from the market without a trace?
Gus pauses, then taps a finger to his chin thoughtfully.
"But if your cart’s late and the gate’s sealed for the night, is that normal, I mean you were expecting it were you not?"
He tilts his head, studying the baker’s face carefully.
“Has anything else strange happened lately? Missing carts? Shadows where there shouldn’t be shadows? Buyers asking weird questions? Anyone trying to pay for a pie with something other than money?”
Then, with a half-hearted attempt to lighten the mood:
“I swear, if I get to the bottom of this and find out someone’s been hoarding all the sticky buns for some secret underground pastry cult, I’m going to be very conflicted.”
[Insight: 17]
The flour-dappled vendor looks at Gustavo in horrified fascination - as though he's expecting him to explode at any moment (A common reaction to the hyperactive Gnome, alas.)
"Yes, I was expecting a cart down from the Citadel, I've only got so much stock left and this crowd will be down to hard tack in a few hours. They close the tunnel gate all the time, and no-one will be on the low road this late, but my store's back up in the city, right up near the daylight levels - should have been down here by now."
"I don't know Leo: Quiet chap, keeps himself to himself and doesn't cause any trouble - we nod in passing and he's pleasant enough to chat to while we're waiting at the mill.
I know Hildegard, though I wish I didn't. Her and her washerwomen."
[On a 17: He's afraid of Hildegard - for some reason the mild-looking silver-haired woman in the pale blue gown frightens him deeply.]
Gus feels the baker’s unease radiate off him like steam from a fresh tray of cinnamon rolls. He reins in his usual energy as much as Gus can and lifts both hands in a calm, friendly gesture. His smile softens. His voice, though still peppy, dials down to “mildly excitable.”
“Oh. I’m just a gnome with a curious heart and a weakness for good bread.”
He gives a small wink, then casually glances over his shoulder and subtly waves Tuu’Saayn over with a two-fingered flick behind his back. To anyone else, it might look like he’s brushing off a crumb.
“Now,” he continues, adjusting his vest as if simply settling into a casual chat, “you mentioned Hildegard…”
He leans just slightly closer, lowering his voice.
“What’s the story there? I mean, you don’t have to be afraid of me—well, unless you ever try to sell me a day-old danish at fresh-baked prices.”
He chuckles lightly, then adds with an almost surprising clarity of tone.
“Truth is, we’re looking into her disappearance, too. Leo, Hildegard. And if there’s something off about her, now would be a fantastic time to bring it up.”
He tilts his head, eyes searching the baker’s expression with a quiet kind of empathy.
“I’m not judging. Just trying to keep folks safe. Even the scary ones in blue gowns.”
[Persuasion: 6]
"You stay well away from Hildegard, if you know what's good for you."
The vendor looks around, as if checking for sight of her pale blue gown approaching. He bends down to Gus' ear to whisper
"They say she takes clothes from the dead."
He straightens up and continues in more normal tones
"Wouldn't want to see a nice chap like you get mixed up with old Hildegard."
(quietly)
"Find your hat hanging in her store one evenin"
[Even with the failed persuasion, he likes Gustavo enough to warn him.]